


February

by Elvendork



Series: Calendar Verse [8]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Birthday, Family, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: In which Douglas dislikes secrets, Martin is having trouble in school, and Arthur is turning five.





	1. Douglas

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys... I'm really sorry I've been away for two whole years. It's a long story, but I never had any intention of abandoning this series. This fic will have 4 chapters, all of which are already complete and waiting to be posted. I will probably be posting one per day or every other day until it is finished.

After a surprisingly mild final week of January, the second month of the year dawns with a crisp, cold frost.

To the uninitiated, the fact that Arthur’s birthday is on the horizon would seem painfully obvious. To a casual acquaintance it would be nigh-on impossible to tell the difference between Arthur’s usual joyful exuberance and his recent bout of pre-birthday excitement.

To his family, the distinction is slight but crucial, though they are all well versed in management techniques.

Douglas, co-schemer for as long as he can remember, has the unenviable task of keeping his younger brothers occupied while their mother makes the necessary preparations. It irks Douglas somewhat that he is not privy to her plans this year, but the mystery is at least as intriguing as it is insulting (at the moment; it is a delicate balance). He puzzles over it quietly as Arthur and Martin tug him along the road to the corner shop, pocket money clutched feverishly in their free hands and eyes wide with anticipation.

‘Come  _ on _ , Douglas, they’ll be all  _ run out _ by the time we get there and then we won’t have  _ any _ sweets –’

‘Mum only said that to get you out of the house faster,’ Douglas rolls his eyes and pulls his right hand from Martin’s left, halting his steps firmly. ‘Stop dragging me along, I’m not a doll.’

‘ _ Douglas _ , we’re missing the  _ sweets _ !’ Arthur exclaims dramatically, fingers still closed tightly around Douglas’s palm as he continues his efforts to speed their journey.

‘Mum works in a  _ sweet shop _ ,’ Douglas reminds his brothers.

‘She owns it, actually,’ Martin corrects dutifully, earning himself a look of practiced exasperation from Douglas. ‘What?’ he demands, hands on hips. ‘She  _ does _ .’

‘The point,’ Douglas continues smoothly, ‘is that she has access to as many sweets as she wants. Why does she need to send us out for more?’

‘They’re not for  _ Mum _ , silly!’ Arthur giggles. ‘They’re for school!’

‘So?’ Douglas challenges.

‘Mum said we could choose,’ Martin cuts in, looking faintly wistful, as will any young boy with a fistful of pocket money and permission to spend  _ as much as he wants _ on chocolate and lollipops. ‘She said we could have  _ anything _ we wanted,  _ and _ we have to make sure we have enough for Arthur’s  _ whole class _ !’

Douglas sighs in an exaggerated, put-upon way, although he rather enjoys the drama of it all.

‘The  _ answer _ ,’ he stresses carefully, making sure that both brothers are listening intently before continuing, ‘is that she wants us  _ out of the house _ .’

If he expects any reaction other than blank confusion following this announcement, he is sorely disappointed.

‘Why would she want that?’ Martin queries disbelievingly.

‘Isn’t it  _ obvious _ ?’ Douglas huffs, to which both Martin and Arthur shake their heads earnestly. ‘She’s got a secret that we’re not supposed to know about.’

‘Like what?’ Martin frowns, apparently unable to fathom the thought that it might be necessary for Carolyn not to confide every aspect of her existence in her sons.

‘Douglas doesn’t know, silly!’ Arthur giggles. ‘That’s why it’s a secret!’

‘Actually,’ puts in Douglas, smoothly, automatically, and quite untruthfully, ‘I do know.’

‘ _ Really _ ?’ Martin looks both awed and doubtful; latching onto the former, Douglas carefully neglects to mention that he has scarcely more than a faint notion that it must be to do with Arthur’s birthday present.

‘Of course.’

‘How?’ Martin presses, while Arthur watches with wide, fascinated eyes – which nevertheless occasionally flicker back in the direction of the corner shop.

‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ Douglas replies, somewhat haughtily, with what has become his default answer to questions he either can’t or won’t respond to in a more satisfactory manner.

‘Can you tell us?’ asks Martin in a loud whisper, glancing around as though for eavesdroppers.

‘I  _ could _ ,’ Douglas replies, in a smoothly superior voice, ‘but I’m not going to.’

Arthur immediately pouts and Martin looks crestfallen, but both are secretly rather pleased. It would have been no fun if Douglas had given up  _ straight _ away.

00000

The boys return home rather sooner than planned, having foregone all the usual excitable indecisiveness and scooped up handfuls of their favourite sugary treats, paid, and departed with business-like efficiency. Martin has a packet of jelly babies to himself, which he tucks safely into his coat pocket without opening. Douglas has selected a large bag of liquorice allsorts, and Arthur is happily digging into a sticky mess of sherbet dip. The remainder of their haul is carefully stowed in Martin’s rucksack, ready for distributing at school on the appointed day.

‘…Not today,’ Carolyn is saying into her mobile as the boys enter. She is pacing the living room and has her back to the door when it opens, but she recognises their footsteps through long maternal practice. She waves them soundlessly through to the kitchen and lowers her voice slightly, though does nothing to soften her tone. ‘Tomorrow? Well, Wednesday then – fine, but no later than five o ‘clock – yes, I understand that, but I do have other things to be getting on with – very well. I will see you at four-fifteen sharp, Wednesday afternoon. Goodbye.’

Douglas, Martin, and Arthur exchange meaningful looks.

‘Do you think –’ Arthur whispers excitedly, but whatever he says next is drowned out by the clatter and rustle of sweet wrappers as Douglas snatches Martin’s rucksack away and empties it onto the counter.

‘ _ Hey _ !’ Martin protests loudly, scowling and reaching quickly for his – stolen and now empty – bag.

‘Hi Mum,’ says Douglas, casually tossing the rucksack in Martin’s general direction – Martin splutters as he receives a face-full of course blue material, but stops short of any more specific complaints. ‘Do you think we got enough?’ Douglas continues cheerily, waving at the mountain of purchases to his right. Carolyn narrows her eyes suspiciously at his tone but does not question him on it. (She would not get an honest answer anyway, and she knows it; better to docket the information for later analysis.)

‘You were supposed to get enough to feed Arthur’s class,’ Carolyn replies slowly and deliberately, now arching a doubtful eyebrow.

‘You think we should have got more?’ Douglas asks, and the concern across his face is deliberately obvious in its falsity. His lips twitch with amusement as Arthur, looking genuinely worried, begins a quick – and probably wildly inaccurate – mumbled count of the items on offer.

‘Thirty lollies,’ Carolyn continues with expert coolness, ‘would have been more than enough. You appear to have bought out half the shop.’

‘But Mum, not everyone  _ likes _ lollies,’ Martin pipes up.

‘Which is silly, because lollies are  _ brilliant _ –’ Arthur interrupts.

‘So we couldn’t just get them in case it meant we were leaving someone out –’

‘Which would be  _ not brilliant _ –’

‘And Douglas said to just get some of everything because then –’ Martin falters under the combined weight of glares from both Douglas and their mother. ‘Because then… we could… have the rest…’ Martin’s voice trails away to nothingness, but Carolyn has already gathered the gist.

‘You could have the rest to yourselves, correct?’

‘Well we wouldn’t want them to go to  _ waste _ ,’ says Douglas reasonably.

00000

Half an hour later the boys are gathered in Douglas’s bedroom, sitting, as is their habit, cross-legged on the floor and facing each other.

‘Is Mum going to have a baby?’ Martin asks abruptly, his expression twisting thoughtfully.

‘What?’ Douglas exclaims, caught off guard. ‘ _ No _ . Why do you keep asking me that?’

‘Well, Arthur says –’

‘You’re listening to  _ Arthur _ about this?’

‘Tim Buckley says –’ Arthur interrupts.

‘Tim Buckley doesn’t know everything,’ Douglas snaps, rolling his eyes.

‘But –’

‘We’ve been through this. Mum is not going to have a baby.’ Douglas’s tone is final and his expression is thunderous, but neither of his brothers seem particularly cowed by this.

‘Well I asked Karl and Karl says that  _ his _ mum was in her  _ forties _ when she had him.’ Martin looks triumphant and Douglas scowls. Karl is perhaps six months younger than Douglas and the two have been good friends for some seven or eight years, but the older boy is coming to resent the competition for his brothers’ attention.

‘And?’ Douglas demands automatically.

‘Well, our mum is only thirty-nine,’ Martin replies, sounding infuriatingly reasonable. Douglas flounders for a moment, unable to come up with an argument to this. He will need to have a word with Karl.

‘She’s still not going to have a baby. Stop  _ going on _ about it.’

‘I only  _ asked _ ,’ Martin huffs, crossing his arms moodily.

‘Well don’t,’ Douglas admonishes once more. This line of questioning is making him more and more uncomfortable, although he isn’t quite sure why. Martin falls silent, scowling. He does not apologise, but he decides not to press any further at the moment. Arthur, who has been watching the exchange with an expression of mild curiosity but without a great deal of urgency, cocks his head to one side in thought.

‘Do you think she might  _ adopt _ a baby?’ he asks at last.

00000

Douglas twirls the key around his fingers and stares at the ceiling. He is sitting on the floor with his back against the side of his bed. He doesn’t really know why the idea of his mother having another child should bother him this much. He supposes it might be because he  _ doesn’t know _ .

In the past he has always known. Or – well, he supposes that twice is not really enough to say, but when his mother had been pregnant with Martin she had made a point of telling both him and Gordon at the same time, and he had found out about Arthur even  _ before _ Gordon.

He always knows what Martin and Arthur’s birthday presents are – often he is instrumental in  _ choosing _ said presents – he has helped plan holidays and Christmases and goodness knows what else for as long as he can remember. 

So why now? Why  _ now _ is he being kept in the dark?

A small and still quite childish part of him suggests that it must be Herc. Herc is, after all, the only really significant change there has been in their home lives for the last year. 

Another part, a more honest part of which Douglas is not particularly fond, argues that Herc has made a pointed effort to include him in almost every decision making process Douglas would agree to prior to this, and that perhaps the change is in Douglas himself. Perhaps he has done something which means their mother no longer finds him trustworthy. But she would  _ tell _ him that, surely? 

A naive and hopeful sliver somewhere deeply hidden whispers that maybe -  _ maybe -  _ it is supposed to be a surprise for him too. He hardly acknowledges this idea before he dismisses it. 

He throws the key up and catches it moodily. He is getting quite sick of all these different sides vying for attention. Is this what it is like to be a grown up? No wonder their answers are so often indefinite -  _ we’ll see, maybe later, I’ll think about it  _ \- probably it gets so loud in their heads that they really  _ can't  _ hear themselves think. 

It must be tiring, Douglas decides. It is a good thing he is still young, and has the energy for such extended thought.

00000

It is not very much time later that Douglas falls soundly asleep, and does not stir when the key to his mother's filing cabinet slips from his loosened fingers onto his bedroom floor with a soft, incriminating  _ thud _ . 

00000

When Douglas wakes he finds the key gone and himself beneath the covers on his bed. The only indication of how this happened comes from Herc’s surreptitious wink at breakfast. The first thing he feels is a burst of fear: Is Herc going to tell Carolyn? But no - he wouldn’t be winking if he was planning that. Then there is guilt, although not much of it. Lastly, and overwhelmingly, there is irritation. He scowls. Herc has no right not to tell on him, as if they were co-conspirators, as if he means Douglas to feel like he  _ owes _ Herc something.

Douglas eats in silence and declines his mother’s usual lift to school. Instead he texts Karl and waits at the end of the street until the smaller boy arrives, shirt untucked and hanging out of the bottom of his back-to-front hoodie. The hood is filled with snacks, which Karl is sifting through as he walks.

‘Alright?’ he offers, looking up briefly as he passes Douglas without stopping. They fall into step easily. 

‘You need to stop telling Martin that our mum’s going to have a baby,’ Douglas replies without a greeting.

‘I never said she was  _ going to _ ,’ Karl objects. ‘I just said she  _ could _ .’

‘Well, don’t. It’s weird.’ Douglas reaches out to dip his hand into Karl’s hood, snags a pack of chewing gum, and pops one in his mouth before returning the rest. 

‘Whatever you say,’ Karl shrugs. He has selected a bag of crisps for himself and tears it open hungrily. 

‘Where did you get this lot anyway?’ 

‘Kitchen cupboard,’ Karl raises his eyebrows as though he thinks this was a stupid question. Douglas supposes it was. 

‘Isn’t it your lunch?’ It doesn’t look like lunch. Not like the ones Douglas and his brothers take to school anyway. It looks like whatever Karl could reach and grab between rolling out of bed and slouching from the house without apparently brushing his hair or tying his shoelaces.

‘It’s food. I can eat it when I want,’ is Karl’s somewhat irritable response. ‘Are you my mother all of a sudden?’

Douglas doesn’t reply to this. He wants to ask. He  _ wants _ to, but he doesn’t. Douglas might not be Karl’s mother, but he does sometimes get the impression that Karl’s actual parents don’t take very much interest in their son, and - well - someone has to, don’t they?

He keeps his mouth shut, though. Karl doesn’t, but only because he is hungrily shovelling crisps into it as though he will never see food again.

Douglas scuffs his toes along the ground as they walk, scowling at the pavement and biting his tongue against pointing out Karl’s trailing laces. Karl is going to trip over them if he isn’t careful.

‘I think she might be,’ Douglas mutters suddenly.

‘What?’ Karl scrunches up the now empty crisp packet and stuffs it back into his hood.

‘I think my mum might be pregnant.’ 

‘So?’ Karl wipes crumbs off his fingers and shoves both hands into his trouser pockets. He kicks a loose stone and watches absently as it skitters along the ground.

‘It’s weird.’ 

‘Why is it weird?’

‘It just  _ is _ , alright?’

‘You’ve got two brothers,’ says Karl. ‘What difference is one more going to make?’

‘That’s not the point,’ Douglas grumbles.

‘Then what  _ is _ the point?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

It doesn’t - or it does, but it shouldn’t, and Douglas doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t know why he brought it up. He adjusts his rucksack, trying to remember if he has enough for two at lunchtime.


	2. Martin

Carolyn drops her two youngest sons at their school shortly before the morning bell is due to go. Arthur races off immediately to join a large group of friends including Tim Buckley, while Martin - rather more sedately - makes his way to the school’s tiny library. It is little more than a few battered shelves, a single desktop computer, and a selection of bean bags, but it is quiet and empty this early in the morning. Martin tucks himself safely into a corner and takes out his book. 

 

Most of Martin's school days begin like this, even when Theresa is around. Usually Theresa sits beside him either reading her own book or following along with his, or else she will wander the shelves in search of something new to catch her eye, or she might pester Martin to join her outside for a change - this rarely succeeds, but she never seems to mind. 

 

Martin has the library to himself today. Theresa is in Liechtenstein visiting family - a great uncle or something of the sort. Martin is not exactly jealous, but he is curious. He is not close to any of his extended family. He thinks Theresa must be close to hers, to go all that way to see them. The only thing that does give rise to a twinge of envy is the idea of the flights there and back, but Theresa has promised to tell him all about it and anyway he wouldn't like to miss Arthur's birthday even for an aeroplane ride. Arthur would be upset. Perhaps for  _ his _ birthday he can ask if he can go on a flight with Herc, rather than just to the Duxford Air Museum like usual… 

 

Martin settles himself more securely on his chosen bean bag. He checks his watch; there is only a minute left until the bell. He should start packing away his book, but he is reluctant to move from his secluded little nook, and his classroom is only just around the corner.

 

He reads the last paragraph slowly, savouring the limited time he has left alone, and when the bell sounds he grudgingly replaces his bookmark and drags himself to his feet. 

 

He slings his backpack over both shoulders and grips the straps tightly in his little fists. He walks with his eyes on the floor. 

 

One thing he  _ does  _ regret about Theresa's untimely holiday - aside, of course, from her simple absence - is the return of his usual social status. He doesn't mind being on his own; usually, in fact, he enjoys it. What he dislikes is the other children's attitudes to his solitude.

 

He hears a carrying whisper and a barely stifled giggle. He keeps his head down, cheeks burning with fear and shame, until he reaches his classroom. He is the first through the door - he usually is - and has his pick of cubby holes at the back of the room to deposit his bag and coat. He chooses his usual slot and removes what he needs from his rucksack before wrapping the bag securely in his coat and tucking both firmly into the shelf, half way up and deliberately in full view of Mr Fell’s desk. This way it will be a hassle to remove for anyone trying not to be noticed, and almost impossible to take out any of Martin's belongings without being seen by the teacher.

 

He sits near the front of the room, close to Mr Fell's desk. This arrangement is sheer luck, as each desk has a little laminated name card next to it so Martin cannot choose where to go - but if he could, it would probably be here. (It does not occur to him that Mr Fell might have arranged this deliberately.)

 

Martin does not waste much time agonising over what Arthur’s birthday presents might be. Unlike Douglas he has never had much of a role in choosing them before, and besides he has quite enough on his mind with school as it is. He is content to wait.

 

00000

 

Before school the library is empty and the other pupils are only drifting into the building in twos or threes, too absorbed in each other to notice much else, so Martin can easily avoid unwanted attention. 

 

During lesson time Martin is always careful to remain in sight of the teacher, even when the tasks require moving around, and even if the task is dull at least there is something to focus on. (He enjoys Maths, but not Creative Writing. He likes Art but isn't very good at it. He has never taken to PE.) 

 

At break time the library is busier, crowded with other children who are reading or bickering over the computer, but Martin can almost always find somewhere out of the way to sit and avoid confrontation. 

 

It is lunchtime that causes problems. Food is not allowed in the library. Martin does not like the dining hall. Really it is just the assembly hall filled with fold-up tables and the little hatch-way to the kitchen open so that those who have school food can collect it. It is loud, and every sound echoes unpleasantly so that it is difficult to hold a conversation without raising your voice above it - which only increases the echoing - and it smells. It doesn't exactly smell  _ bad,  _ but it smells of a  _ lot _ , of every different food that has been served in the last week, it seems, and of a hundred children all crammed together in what is after all not a very big place. Besides which, there is nowhere to sit  _ alone _ . It is not so bad with Theresa here. With Theresa he has a sort of shield. Theresa chooses where they sit, and even if Martin doesn't know any of the others on the table then it is generally okay, because if they  _ do _ decide to talk to him, he can just let Theresa take over the conversation. (Conversations are  _ hard _ . Even with other children, who either talk about things Martin doesn't understand, or talk about things he does understand but finds boring. No one ever seems to want to discuss  _ interesting  _ things. Like aeroplanes.)

 

So Martin, when alone, usually takes his packed lunch outside. There are plenty of quiet places to hide if you know where to look. There are teachers on duty, of course, but not enough to see everything that is happening all the time, so Martin doesn't fool himself into thinking he can rely on their protection now.

 

He finds his bench empty, as usual, and settles onto it. It is under the branches of a small conker tree, although at this time of year of course it is bare of both leaves and conkers. In the summer it offers a spot of shade; in autumn it is crowded with conker-hunting fellow pupils. It is best in winter, when the bark is too wet for climbing (for those daring enough to attempt it without getting caught) and the branches are too empty to provide much entertainment otherwise.

 

The ground is bare of grass and damp, littered with little twigs and old brown leaves. Martin rolls a pebble absently under his foot while he pulls his rucksack around onto his lap and unzips it. Most children leave their bags in their classrooms, taking their lunch if they brought it but not bothering with the rest, which could hinder their movement in games of football or tag or whatever else they play amongst themselves. Martin daren't leave his things unsupervised, though, even if the classroom will be locked, and so rarely gets involved in group games that it is no inconvenience to carry the extra weight around. 

 

He nibbles on his sandwich, not really hungry but with little else to do until the whistle is blown for the end of lunch. 

 

Until a few months ago this was how almost every lunchtime would pass. His days had gone by in an exhausting solitary watchfulness, and he had more or less accepted this as simply the way things were. He hadn't really been lonely, if only because he had nothing else to compare his experience to. He has his brothers at home, but that is different.  

 

He is lonely now. He wishes Theresa would come back. 

 

00000

 

In the end Martin manages about half of his sandwich and a few bites of an apple. He prods sullenly at a sore tooth and reflects that he might have to ask for softer fruit next week; he will have another gap soon. 

 

He is quickly absorbed once again in his book, still rolling the pebble beneath his foot but largely unaware of the noises around him. He does not register the first whistle blow when it is time to go back in to lessons. The second one jerks him back to his senses unpleasantly, his heart lurching into his throat with nervous confusion as he scrambles to his feet and stuffs his book back into his bag. He dreads being late.

 

He is rushing to get to his class line, one of the last few pupils on the field, so he neglects to pay proper attention to his surroundings. His hurried steps carry him past the boundary of the grassy field, onto the hard tarmac of the playground - and his foot catches something - and he is sprawling forwards - he cries out and throws his hands forward to catch himself - he is hot and cold with embarrassment before he has even hit the floor, and pushing himself clumsily to his feet before the pain in his palms and knees has fully registered.

 

‘Martin!’ Mr Fell steps towards him, gesturing for those at the front of the line to remain where they are (though several edge around to watch). ‘Are you okay?’

 

‘I'm fine Sir,’ Marton gasps automatically, trying to brush fine clinging black gravel from his hands as he straightens up, and hitching his rucksack more securely over his shoulder. 

 

‘Are you sure? Let me see your hands, you went over quite hard there.’ Martin obediently holds out his hands, palms up. He grits his teeth suddenly as a wave of stinging assaults him, determined not to cry. The skin of his palms is scraped and broken, dirty despite his efforts to brush them clean, and the pain is increasing as he looks at them. 

 

Mr Fell sucks in a sympathetic breath and crouches down to bring his own head almost level with Martin's. 

 

‘Oh, they look like they sting,’ Mr Fell observes gently. Martin nods, biting his lip to stop himself making a sound. ‘Not to worry,’ Mr Fell stands up and smiles encouragingly at him. ‘They're just grazed, and they'll be much better once they're washed. How’s your knee?’

 

Martin glances down. In the midst of his humiliation at the fall, the heat of his cheeks and the pain of his hands, he hadn't noticed the sharp stinging of his right knee. His smart grey trousers are torn messily over the joint and there is an ugly red graze - not deep, but suddenly painful now he pays it attention - with loose cotton threads sticking in the blood and the damaged skin. 

 

Martin feels his eyes grow hot with unshed tears. So much of his concentration is spent in not letting them fall that he has little faculty left for speech. He shrugs instead.

 

‘Come on. Miss Hicks will clean you up and then you can come back to class once you're all put together again, alright?’ Martin nods. ‘Have you got a friend you'd like to come with you?’ Martin shakes his head. He thinks of Molly but dismisses the idea. Somehow it is too strange to approach her without Theresa around. He misses Theresa with a dull throb of feeling that almost forces the tears from his eyes despite his concentrated effort to remain as stoic as possible. He hasn't let himself look directly into Mr Fell's kindly, slightly distracted face, keeping his eyes instead glued to the ground, brow furrowed in determination. 

 

‘Alright. Come on, then. I'll drop you off on the way to class, okay? Would you like me to take your bag?’ 

 

Martin shakes his head and puts one of his injured hands automatically on the strap slung over his shoulder. 

 

He is too wrapped up in his own misery to see Rebecca Garfield’s eye roll, or - as she and the rest of the class fall into step behind him and Mr Fell - her cruel impression of his ungainly fall, and their stifled merriment. 

 

00000

 

Miss Hicks is an attentive nurse who knows Martin as well as any of the teachers. He is a clumsy child, too often preoccupied by what is inside his head to notice what goes on around him much of the time. His older brother she remembers, too, though his injuries were more often the result of foolhardy risk-taking than simple lack of attention. The youngest she does not know so well, but then he has only been at the school five or six months. 

 

She tuts fondly when Mr Fell explains, briefly, what happened, and turns her attention fully towards Martin as soon as Mr Fell has left the little first aid station.

 

‘What are we going to do with you?’ she asks, shaking her head. ‘Come over here and run your hands under the tap - that's it, I know, it stings, doesn't it? Just wash them gently, there you go - that's not so bad is it? They'll heal up in no time, but I'm just going to wipe them with this okay? It might hurt a little but it'll clean all the germs off so you don't get an infection… There you go, aren't you being brave?’

 

She keeps up a constant litany of comforting semi-nonsense as she cleans Martin's palms and knee, and lets him choose a plaster to cover the graze on his leg. Martin hardly speaks at all, although he finds himself calming down at the nurse’s soothing tone. 

 

‘There,’ says Miss Hicks at last, smoothing Martin’s chosen plaster (covered in little flying Buzz Lightyear figures) over his knee. ‘That's better isn't it?’

 

‘Thank you,’ Martin replies quietly, letting his trouser leg fall back down to cover his knee and shin - although the plaster shows brightly through the ragged hole in the fabric. 

 

‘Not a problem. It's what I'm here for.’ Miss Hicks smiles broadly. ‘Now, do you think you're ready to go back to class yet? I'll call your mum and let her know what's happened, so don't worry about that, and you just come back here if you need anything else, okay?’

 

‘Yes Miss,’ Martin replies quietly. He stands awkwardly by the big window onto the corridor, waiting for the nurse’s permission to leave.

 

‘Is there anything you want to talk about, Martin?’ Miss Hicks asks perceptively, but Martin shakes his head. 

 

‘No thank you Miss.’

 

‘Alright then. You know you can talk to any of the teachers if you need to, don't you?’

 

Martin nods. His cheeks are flushing with fresh embarrassment; he just wants to get out of here now. 

 

‘Do you think you can make your way back to class on your own, or would you like me to walk with you?’

 

‘I can go on my own,’ Martin assures her immediately. The only thing worse than walking in late to the lesson on his own would be walking in late to the lesson accompanied by the nurse. He doesn't think he could stand the humiliation. 

 

‘Okay. You be careful, alright? Watch where you're putting your feet!’

 

Martin smiles tightly, because Miss Hicks is smiling and seems to expect him to do the same, and wonders if this is his cue to leave. He edges towards the door, watching to see if Miss Hicks is going to stop him. She doesn't, so he nods sharply, mumbles a final ‘thanks’, pulls the door open and hurries away before he can be called back. 

 

00000

 

Martin does not concentrate during the afternoon’s lessons. He tries, but his mind keeps going back to the looks - or imagined looks - of derision on his classmate’s faces as he struggled back to his feet. He hears Becky Garfield’s muffled laughter, feels again the sudden unexpected pressure on his ankle, his heart hammering now because his brain is insisting there is  _ danger _ even though he is perfectly safe and wasn't badly hurt in the first place. He grits his teeth and tries to forget. He does not succeed. 

 

He has rarely been so relieved to be dismissed at the end of the day. He is almost the first out of the door, ignoring Molly’s uncertain voice asking if he is okay, immediately feeling guilty, winding himself tighter and tighter as he walks quickly towards the gate. 

 

His mother is already waiting there for him. He feels himself relax, just a little, but resists the sudden urge to reach for her hand. He has had enough embarrassment for one day. 

 

‘So,’ is the first thing Carolyn says to him. ‘I hear you've been in the wars today?’

 

‘I'm fine,’ Martin mutters in reply, looking at the ground. ‘I tripped.’

 

‘Hmm. I'll have a proper look when we get home. Arthur! Come on, I haven't got all day. You'll see them tomorrow!’

 

00000

 

Carolyn tuts, either irritable or sympathetic - it is hard to tell - as she inspects Martin’s hands later, but does not chastise her son. She replaces the school plaster on his knee, which has already come loose where Martin has been picking anxiously at the edge, and tells him he'll mend soon enough. 

 

‘Now stop looking so glum and go and look on the shelf by the door. Something arrived for you in the post.’

 

Martin's heart leaps. The only person likely to contact him through the post is Theresa, and sure enough when he reaches the shelf in question there is a postcard lying prominently in the empty space beside the telephone. He snatches it up at once, glances at the picturesque image of a mountain range, and flips it over to read. 

 

_ Dear Martin,  _

 

_ Liechtenstein is quite cold at the moment but not much colder than England and it is raining a lot. My Mum is making me do loads of schoolwork so I don't fall behind but I still get lots of time to see my family which is good. I miss you very much and I am looking forward to being back in England even though I am enjoying Liechtenstein and it is very nice to see everyone here. Please say Happy Birthday to Arthur for me. I will bring back presents for everyone but I will make sure to bring him a special one because I know he will be five years old when I see him again and that is exciting although everything is exciting for Arthur. I will see you very soon and please be happy and not lonely at school.  _

 

_ Lots of love, _

_ Theresa xxx _

 

Martin feels himself grinning. His hands and knee don't seem to sting as much anymore. He re-reads the short missive, feeling a happy little bubble in his chest when he reaches the words  _ I miss you _ . He wishes he could talk to her now, but this is the next best thing he supposes, and Arthur  _ will _ be overjoyed to have a special mention. 

 

Maybe he can tolerate school by himself for another week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on minor characters:
> 
> Molly was first introduced in November, which is a BBC Sherlock crossover. Characters from BBC Sherlock, being an established part of this 'verse now, do get occasional minor parts, but I don't have anything big planned for them at the moment so don't worry if crossovers, or Sherlock, aren't your thing.
> 
> Mr Fell and Miss Hicks are both named after characters from other media, but are effectively OCs in this - I have no intention of introducing their worlds as crossover material - I just borrowed the names because I love a cameo.
> 
> Rebecca Garfield is an OC briefly mentioned in the first Calendar Verse fic, September. She has a history of bullying Martin.


	3. Arthur

Arthur is often an early riser. There are just so many things to be excited about that sleeping late is just - well, sleep is  _ brilliant,  _ of course, it's cosy and warm and sleep is when the Tooth Fairy comes, and Santa, and dreams - but there are so many things to do when you're awake! He opens his eyes at first light on most days, and before it sometimes. 

 

He is awake long before sunrise today. He was almost too excited to sleep at all last night, but he was so tired from playing tag all evening with his brothers that after a while he simply hadn't been able to keep his eyes open. 

 

(It does not occur to Arthur that this was the  _ point _ of the game.) 

 

He knows better than to wake the others just yet though… but it's so  _ hard  _ to stay still. Maybe if he just gets up quietly and stays in his room. There is lots to do in here. He could finish the jigsaw puzzle he started yesterday. He likes jigsaw puzzles, but he isn't very good at them. That's okay though. He still enjoys them, and Martin says he will learn. Martin knows such a lot of things. Almost as much as Douglas, but not quite. Douglas is much older after all, so he has had more time to learn things. Arthur can't wait to be twelve whole years old, but he does also enjoy being four. 

 

Except he isn't four anymore now is he? He's five! Five years old! The thought is so brilliant that Arthur can't sit still (his version of still, which means a lot of fidgeting and wriggling but not actually standing up) any longer, and he scrambles out of bed. 

 

First he rushes to the window and reaches up to pull the curtains open. The sky is getting slowly paler, but there is no definite sign of sunrise just yet. A few lonely stars are still, just, visible. Everything is quiet, like the world itself is still sleeping. Arthur watches as a single car backs slowly out of a neighbour’s drive and eases away down the road. He can hear the faint rumble of the engine; he can see the puff of vapour from the exhaust. He breathes on the cold window glass and, standing on tiptoes, uses his finger to trace a smiling face in the condensation. He watches, delighted, as the water runs down in nearly straight lines from his picture. The droplets gather at the bottom of the window and Arthur pulls his finger through the little puddle to draw a clumsy cake. He has to concentrate to make sure he counts to right number of candles.

 

Grinning, he jumps away from the window and throws open his wardrobe. Maybe he will get  _ himself _ dressed today, and get all his clothes on in the right places, done up neatly and properly ready for school - and how pleased Mum will be if he manages that! Usually he needs help with his buttons, or he puts on his trousers inside-out, or manages to accidentally choose odd socks even though Mum always rolls identical pairs together in the drawer. But he is  _ five _ , now. He is old enough to do these things for himself. To  _ try _ and do these things for himself, anyway.

 

He isn’t expecting the quiet knock on his door, and drops the coat hanger he is holding to the floor. He recovers quickly from his shock, though, and rushes to open the door - whoever could it be, up this early?

 

Douglas - tousle haired and still in his pyjamas - stands outside. Arthur’s hands shoot up to cover his mouth.

 

‘I’m sorry!’ he whispers, too loud. ‘Did I wake you up?’

 

‘No,’ Douglas replies. His face, though unaccountably a little glum, brightens to a small smile; Arthur’s good mood is difficult to resist. ‘I was awake already.’ He does not say way. Arthur can only imagine he is excited as well, and beams happily. He grabs Douglas’s hand and pulls him into the room.

 

‘You can help me choose my socks!’

 

00000

 

It is another half an hour before they hear any movement from the rest of the house. Douglas has, with fond exasperation, got Arthur properly dressed and taken him downstairs away from the other bedrooms in an effort to minimise the disturbance. Arthur is eating breakfast at the table while Douglas makes himself toast in the kitchen when Carolyn walks in. 

 

‘You two are up early,’ she comments drily. ‘I can't think why.’

 

‘ _ Mu-um _ !’ Arthur exclaims, dragging the word out to at least two syllables. ‘You  _ know  _ why!’

 

‘No I don't,’ Carolyn argues smoothly. ‘Unless there's something happening at school today that I don't know about.’

 

‘It's my  _ birthday _ , Mum!’ 

 

‘Is it? Are you sure?’

 

‘ _ Yes _ !’ Arthur is practically vibrating with excitement. Carolyn puts her hands on her hips and regards him doubtfully. 

 

‘I'm sure I would have remembered something like that. Are you telling me fibs, Arthur Shappey?’

 

‘No! I promise I'm not, it really  _ is _ my birthday - we bought all those sweets for it remember? I'm five now!’

 

‘Hmm. Perhaps we'd better ask Douglas, just to be sure.’

 

‘ _ Douglas _ !’ Arthur calls, clambering down from his chair and running to the kitchen. ‘Tell Mum it  _ is _ my birthday, she doesn’t believe me!’

 

‘Is it?’ Douglas exclaims, automatically playing along. ‘I thought you were just excited for your spelling test. Isn’t that first thing on a Friday? Or is that Martin?’ He doesn’t look at their mother.

 

Arthur is about to protest when Martin - still looking semi-conscious at best - stumbles into the room, rubbing his eyes and blinking in the bright light. He has not brushed his hair or changed out of his pyjamas yet.

 

‘Martin!’ Arthur races over and only just stops in time to avoid a head-on collision with his brother. ‘Martin, it  _ is _ my birthday isn’t it?’

 

‘What? Of course. Why are you -?’

 

‘I  _ told _ you!’ Arthur whirls back to face Douglas and their mother. ‘I told you it was my birthday!’

 

‘Well done Martin,’ Douglas chastises, though without much rancour.

 

‘What? What did I do?’

 

‘Nothing,’ Carolyn interrupts, before an argument can develop. ‘Don’t worry about it. What do you want for breakfast?’

 

Martin opts for cornflakes, which Douglas fetches for him at a glance from their mother. Herc is dressed and present not much later, smiling and ruffling Arthur’s hair with a fond ‘happy birthday’ before he helps himself to his own breakfast.

 

By eight o’clock everyone is dressed, washed, fed, and ready to leave. This means Carolyn and Herc are left with the task of entertaining three boys in varying degrees of excitement for another thirty minutes before they can be packed off to school.

 

‘Well,’ says Carolyn, hands on her hips and face twisted in mock thought. ‘What  _ can _ we do to pass the time?’

 

‘Presents!’ Arthur bursts out immediately, jumping up and clapping his hands. ‘Presents presents! Please?’

 

Carolyn and Herc exchange a Look. Douglas, almost imperceptibly, tenses. 

 

‘Perhaps just the one?’ Herc suggests mildly. Carolyn waves her hand towards the cupboard under the stairs - currently locked - and Herc swings himself to his feet with a smile.

 

Arthur is bouncing up and down, his face radiating perfect joy, while Martin looks on with open fascination and Douglas watches coolly with his arms folded. Douglas is biting his lower lip and a small frown is creasing his forehead, but only Carolyn notices.

 

‘Alright,’ says Herc, returning a few moments later carrying a box full of brightly wrapped packages of many different shapes and sizes. ‘You can choose  _ one _ to open before school. You can have the rest this evening.’

 

‘Yes!’ Arthur darts forwards even before Herc has deposited the box on the floor. As soon as it is within his reach, he starts to pull out the various presents; he squeezes them, shakes them, turns them over and over in his hands to try and guess what they contain (his predictions are usually either uncannily accurate or wildly off-track; no one has been able to figure out why). Martin slips out of his chair to join in, careful not tear any of the paper but inspecting them even more thoroughly than Arthur, after Arthur has discarded them. Douglas is glancing between Carolyn, Herc, and the shifting pile of presents as though determined to read the adults’ minds about what each one contains. 

 

‘What about this one?’ Martin asks Arthur, plucking a hard and oddly misshapen gift from the pile and rattling it again. There are definitely moving parts. Arthur bites his lip, his whole face screwed up in comically exaggerated decision-making, but then he shakes his head.

 

‘What about that big one?’ Douglas breaks his silence to point to the largest of all the presents, a nondescript box in cheerful green paper which both younger boys had abandoned quickly as too difficult to predict. Arthur - much to Douglas’s disappointment, as he feels the box  _ must _ be the secret gift his mother has been planning without him - shakes his head again and dives back into the now thoroughly investigated heap of presents.

 

‘This one.’ Arthur holds up perhaps the smallest present of all, a sphere with red paper twisted at both ends so it looks like a fat Christmas cracker.

 

‘Go on then,’ Carolyn waves him to continue. Arthur scrabbles at the paper with tiny fingers and quickly succeeds in tearing it open to reveal -

 

A plain yellow tennis ball. Douglas sits up suddenly, unnoticed by either of his brothers.

 

‘Brilliant!’ Arthur cries, somewhat predictably, and throws it clumsily to Martin. As Martin is sitting close enough to touch, this mostly involves throwing the ball directly into the air (Herc and Carolyn both make abortive moves to catch it, in case it goes too high and hits something breakable) and waiting for Martin to reach across and grab it - just - in both hands.

 

Douglas is still staring. His eyes are wide and he is looking, open-mouthed, from his mother to the tennis ball. 

 

But the wild idea that has just occurred to him  _ can’t _ be true, can it? Not  _ really _ . His heart is hammering almost painfully, and he doesn’t know if it is fear or joy making it do so.

 

Again only Carolyn notices, and she winks.

 

00000

 

Arthur insists on taking the tennis ball to school. He seems absurdly happy with it, though so far he has spent more time picking it up off the floor than actually succeeding in catching it. 

 

Tim Buckley launches himself towards them as soon as they are out of the car, and Arthur races ahead to meet him so that they collide with some force and throw their arms around each other with a sort of reckless happiness typical of their age.

 

‘Happy birthday!’ Tim shrieks wildly. Then, ‘Come look, come on, Phil found a  _ huge _ caterpillar -’

 

‘Wow!’

 

‘- he says it’s going to be a butterfly when it grows up -  _ I _ want to be a butterfly when I grow up -’

 

‘Is it all colourful?’

 

And so on. Tim drags Arthur away by the hand with barely a backward glance. Carolyn doesn’t stop them. Privately she thinks it rather unlikely that they have found a caterpillar in February - it is surely more likely to be a worm - but if it keeps them entertained then she is not concerned. Arthur is clumsy and often foolish, but he is gentle-hearted and careful when he needs to be.

 

‘You will make sure you take the sweets straight to Mrs Dimont, won’t you?’

 

‘Yes Mum,’ Martin replies dutifully.

 

‘How’s your tooth?’

 

‘It’s fine.’

 

‘It’s not wobbling yet?’

 

‘Not yet.’

 

‘Right. Well, be careful and I’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late out of school.’

 

00000

 

The apparent caterpillar is in fact a worm, but Phil, Tim, and Arthur don’t realise this. They are fascinated by it, and watch it avidly until the bell goes, though they are all - at Arthur’s instruction - careful not to touch it (‘it might be frightened!’). 

 

Mrs Dimont gets the whole class singing ‘Happy Birthday’ once they are settled, and Arthur beams with pride. He loves school.


	4. A New Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a friend coming over tomorrow, so you get two chapters in one day as I may not be able to post again until Saturday otherwise.

The school day passes largely without incident. 

 

Arthur, Phil, and Tim rush straight out at breaktime to find their caterpillar worm, but it has moved on. They play at being butterflies instead for a while, but soon they are just chasing each other around without any clear goal in mind, flushed, out of breath, and shrieking with glee.

 

Molly shyly asks Martin if he would like to join in the detective game she is playing with Sherlock and John, and he does his best to participate. He even finds himself enjoying it, though he does struggle to pick up the rules at first. 

 

Douglas, consumed with curiosity about what his mother's wink meant, forgets entirely to be angry with her. 

 

For the first time this week, all three boys accept Carolyn's lift home at the end of the day. 

 

Douglas is burning to know if his hunch from this morning is correct but desperate not to show how much it matters to him. He finds himself drawn into a heated debate between his brothers about the difference between moths and butterflies (Arthur says butterflies are more colourful; Martin claims moths only come out at night; Douglas is sure it is something to do with their wings) but still finds himself unduly distracted by trembling hands and a pounding heart.

 

It would explain  _ everything _ . It would be the  _ best _ explanation for everything. Of  _ course _ she wouldn’t tell him, if his idea is really true. And wouldn’t it be wonderful, incredible, ridiculous if it was? 

 

At the same time, he is afraid to hope. If he lets himself  _ hope _ , he will be disappointed to be wrong. If he doesn’t hope, it doesn’t matter.

 

Hope is a difficult thing to kill.

 

00000

 

Infuriatingly - for Douglas, whose chest feels like it is twisting itself in knots - Carolyn does not get out of the car as soon as it stops in the driveway. She removes her seatbelt and turns to look at all three boys sitting in the back.

 

‘I need you to let me go in the door first,’ she says calmly. Martin frowns. Arthur nods. Douglas is feeling dizzy with suppressed excitement because  _ this is it _ and he can’t let them see, he can’t acknowledge it. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet inside, and she might be nervous.’

 

‘Who is it?’ asks Douglas immediately, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

 

‘You’ll see.’ Carolyn’s smile is conspiratorial. Douglas swallows.

 

They get out of the car with exaggerated slowness; Arthur seems to be trying to creep up to the house unnoticed, not wanting to scare their mother’s guest. Martin and Douglas exchange a glance and Douglas suspects for the first time that perhaps he isn’t the only one who has worked something out. Martin’s face is rigid with terrified, eager anticipation.

 

‘Alright,’ says Carolyn at the door. ‘When I go in, follow me to the living room, and promise to be extra quiet and sensible, okay?’

 

‘Yes Mum!’ Arthur agrees immediately, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

 

‘Martin?’

 

‘Yes Mum.’

 

‘Douglas?’

 

Douglas rolls his eyes and nods impatiently. He is tapping his foot without realising it. (Carolyn raises an eyebrow, amused, but says nothing.)

 

With agonising slowness, it seems to all three boys, Carolyn opens the door and steps deliberately through the short hallway. Unusually, the living room door is closed. Carolyn depresses the handle quietly, pushes on the door - and steps quickly into the room and to the side, leaving the boys free to see - Herc.

 

Herc in his chair, half turned towards the door, and in his arms - 

 

A teddy bear.

 

Something small and golden, fur in soft curls and little dark eyes alight with interest -

 

Not a teddy bear - 

 

It is wriggling, and Herc leans forwards with a silent grin to set it - her - on the floor -

 

And she is wagging her tail, running straight towards them - straight into Arthur’s delighted arms as he shouts, promises of quiet forgotten -

 

‘ _ PUPPY _ !’

 

Douglas is half laughing, half crying (he will deny it later) and Martin (who is nervous of most animals) has fallen to his knees beside Arthur, whose face is already being thoroughly licked by the tiny new arrival. 

 

‘Well?’ says Carolyn, quietly enough that only Douglas can hear; Martin and Arthur are far too preoccupied. ‘Are we forgiven?’

 

Douglas, eyes wet but getting over the shock already, frowns at her.

 

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he replies haughtily. 

 

‘Of course not,’ Carolyn stifles her smirk. Arthur is now laid on his back with the puppy on his chest, while Martin ruffles the little creature’s fur with a look of wonder on his face. ‘Are you going to say hello?’

 

Douglas does not reply. He kneels down tentatively though, and reaches out a hand to the squirming pile of happiness that is his two brothers with their newest friend. The puppy, noticing another contender for her affections, sniffs eagerly at Douglas’s outstretched fingers, searching for treats. She finds none, but seems to approve anyway because the next thing Douglas knows his arms are full of a wriggling mass of golden hair, yapping and poking her nose everywhere she can find, too inquisitive to stay still for more than a moment at a time.

 

She is Arthur in canine form.

 

Douglas loves her immediately.

 

00000

 

‘Verity,’ Douglas suggests thoughtfully. At the others’ doubtful looks, he crosses his arms. ‘What? I like it!’ 

 

‘Verity isn’t a dog’s name,’ Martin announces decisively. All three boys are sitting on the floor in the living room, surrounded by the detritus of unwrapped presents. The large box of which Douglas was so suspicious this morning turned out to be a jigsaw floor puzzle of a farm. The new puppy - as yet unnamed - is deeply asleep on Arthur’s lap. Arthur himself is being supremely gentle with her; it is clear they have already formed quite the bond.

 

‘Well  _ you _ pick a better one then,’ Douglas challenges, folding his arms. Arthur’s eyes are glued to the puppy. He is listening only vaguely to his brothers’ discussion. Martin thinks for a minute, biting his lip and frowning.

 

‘Gertie,’ he says at last, unusually confident. Douglas looks reluctantly impressed; it is a good name.

 

‘No,’ Arthur muses absently, delicately stroking the top of the puppy’s head with a single finger. ‘I think her name is Snoopadoop.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this instalment of the series. There will, eventually, be more, as long as anyone is interested - hopefully not with such a long wait this time. I do know what I want to happen; it's just a matter of actually writing it. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, for anyone wondering why Douglas is _quite_ so emotional regarding a new puppy... See [the cat incident](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/88387136923/douglas-and-carolyn-compassion-crayons-cats) and its [follow up](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/105866410003/if-douglass-father-left-just-before-his-fourth).


End file.
